The Bear with the Feather
by Dandy in the Aspic
Summary: Ulfric is exasperated with Sabine. Really mild smut ensues. Quick drabble just for fun.


_This is honestly just for fun since I can't get the image of my Breton Dragonborn's relationship with Ulfric out of my head. This was written very quickly and has a lot of mistakes. Just a drabble and a break from Shenko._

* * *

She drifts into the court as if a High Queen of old, more regal, distant and cruel than Potema herself. Snow glistens on her skin and he can see a large travel bag slung on her back, stuffed full of feathers, gems and ingredients. She wears material that clings to her curves, hued of every color, with intricate symbols painstakingly knitted he doesn't understand. Her magic rites, he supposes. Her boots are thick and warm, and covered in snow as her hair and face is. Her nose is red, her face lovely, and he hates and loves her.

Ulfric's blood boils. She worries him for silly trinkets!

He has seen neither hide nor hair of her since the beginning of Last Seed and he was just about to send out a retinue of Stormcloaks to search for her broken body. Images of a corpse in the belly of a dragon had played through his mind for so long. He'd sent letter after letter with the couriers with no reply.

She barely spares him a glance, just gives her customary bow before his throne and drifts up to the higher level rooms of the Palace of Kings. It's not even a bow, he reflects. She barely inclines her head and that damnable smirk is on her face, as if she knew how she worries him and revels in it, rejoices in her freedom and power over him. She put him on the throne and she will damn well not let him forget it. She comes and goes from his court by her own design and refuses to answer any of his summons from the wilds she disappears to.

By the Nine! He can't believe her gall. Beside him, Galmar stifles a snigger.

"You should see your face, my liege," Galmar rumbles and Ulfric glares.

"She has no respect! She has been gone so long and she walks in here as if… as if she were the one who wore the crown."

Galmar shrugs. "A crown would be fitting."

"Galmar," Ulfric sighs, "We've been over this. The people would never accept a Breton as High Queen. A Nordic woman would be fitting."

"Accidents of birth are terrible things," Galmar agrees. "If only she were a proper Nord woman…."

Ulfric stands from his throne and crosses to the feast table, pouring himself a generous amount of wine. "I will announce the betrothal to Elisif the Fair next winter. It will ensure solidarity with Solitude and remove any whispers of dissent over my Kingship." He gives a feral grimace. "It would be more fitting for her to wed a man such as I, rather than that man-boy, Torygg."

The wine is sour in his belly as he thinks of the harpy he is to wed. Aye, she's beautiful, her name deserved. Fair and noble among all the women in the land. And while he'll enjoy the final insult to Torygg, the Pretender-King, he will not enjoy the prospect of long years of marriage to her. Her beauty holds no sway over him. A vase of flowers on the wall is pretty, but he does not wed vases.

Blast the damn Jarls. He would wed who he wished. A High King should not do as they command.

Galmar snatches a mug of ale for himself and waves Ulfric upstairs. A fierce storm rages outside and in the lower levels of the palace a bone-chilling freeze is creeping in. Drifts of snow are left on the stones from where the guards had held the door open for her.

As Galmar and Ulfric walk the weary halls, he glances to her chamber. A fierce longing rises in him. He wonders if she is bathing away the sweat and the dirt from the ride. Wonders if the stables boys are tending her beloved horse, Alfsigr, correctly.

And most of all he wonders if a mere wall of stone separates him most from that which he desires above all else. He sundered an Empire for his desires, for what was right. He clawed a country, took the land that was his.

And yet… he cannot take one women for his own.

"I have not seen you this way since you were a pup," Galmar laughs and ushers him into his sitting room.

Ulfric stokes the fire, telling himself that High Kings do not pout.

"Galmar, tell me. Does she loathe me as much as she acts?"

Galmar erupts into guffaw. "She is Dragonborn. She owns property in Whiterun and a cottage in Falkreath. It's said the dark elves from Solsthiem constructed it especially for her from a mushroom spore and she aided it with her magic. She is with the wilds, and moves as if a feral creature. And yet-"

"And yet, _what_?" Ulfric snaps. "Damn you. I know what she is! You need not write a book about it."

Galmar looks at him as if he is a particularly boisterous and naughty child, caught sneaking mead from his father's mug again.

"And yet she returns home, to Windhelm, my liege. Use the grey matter between your ears."

Ulfric frowns. "I do not understand; speak plainly for Talos' sake."

"The city is old. No grass grows between her stones. Snow is cold and grey. She grows pale with each passing day and her laughter less. But she returns each month for you. To sit at your side each meal and bask in the conversation over politics you share. Her mind is keen and you fascinate her."

Galmar settles into his chair and loosens his belt. He claps his hands together, calling for a servant. "A small feast!" he demands. "For old friends."

The servants obediently bring in a spread of Breton cheese and more wine, along with three succulent pheasants that had been slow roasting all day.

Ulfric sinks into the seat across from Galmar as the older man starts to devour his meal.

"You… say she returns just for me?"

"Oh aye, my lord," Galmar says, spitting a hunk of pheasants out accidentally. "Do not pretend to be ignorant, I saw you during the war. The camp in the Pale, hmm? She did not sleep in her tent and I believe that bare ass in your bed you hastily covered was no ordinary serving girl. I may be old, but I am not blind."

Ulfric doesn't blush but he does take a large sip of mead. "She shared my bed. What of it? She and I were free to do as we will. No babe was born and the Jarls never knew."

The excuses ring hollow in the cold air, the defenses too quickly prepared. He should not have consorted with her, on the field of war and battle no less. Her aid of his cause could be construed as motivated by being his mistress.

Maybe that _was_ her reason…

"Nothing, my liege," Galmar says gently, sensing it's a sore topic. He feels like a bear with a wound, not the Great Bear of Markarth.

Galmar claps his hands again and summons another servant. "Call Sabine Stormcrown. She must taste of this feast."

Ulfric sighs, rubbing his lined forehead. He's irritated with Galmar's interference but not able to stop him inviting her. It would be rude not to.

"You know, she hates her title."

"Aye, Ulfric, that is why I use it," Galmar laughs.

Soon, Sabine drifts into the room, her hair loosened and free. She has that smile back on her face when she sees Ulfric watching her. Her dress is long and flowing, the latest Breton fashion or maybe scraps she had sewn herself. He can no longer tell. The way of Bretons are strange to him, or perhaps it is just her. She told him her family lived near the borders of the Reach and her mother clung to the old ways, passed on her traditions. Ulfric wishes she would learn to wield the sword and abandon her magics. He would teach her himself.

She raises her eyebrow and bows again. "You do me honor by inviting me to your feast, my lord."

"Sabine, do you ever cut loose the sarcasm that is heavy on your tongue?" he sighs, well aware she is playing a game with him. She never used to call him her lord. Once upon a time, it was merely Ulfric.

She drops the act. "Forgive me. The courtly life is unfamiliar. Elisif would be far better suited."

She crosses to a chair pulls it out roughly, piling food onto her plate. "Galmar, you old bastard. Still alive, I see?"

"You little daughter of a whore," Galmar returns. "Still have your pointy ears, I see? I am surprised that a dragon has not burned them off. They stick out for a mile."

She laughs and lights her fist on fire. "You know, I burned the last dragon alive that tried. Shall I try with you?"

"Enough!" Ulfric demands. "Keep your tongues civil."

Her eyes glitter at him. "Galmar as is a father to me. The father that ran off with an elven prostitute, but a father no less."

Galmar nods. "And she is as a daughter, a daughter who brought nothing but shame on my family."

A servant titters nervously in the background, as if not sure to call for the guards, but Ulfric waves him off, accustomed to their play. They instantly hated each other when they first met, but when Sabine was wounded at Solitude, an almost fatal stab through her belly, Galmar had gathered her still body in his arms and wept as the healers had said they could do nothing more. Ulfric had not seen him cry in ten years, and doubted he would again.

He shivers. They were dark days and ones he would not like to revisit.

"Where have you been, Sabine?" Ulfric asks her and she raises her eyes to meet his gaze, free from that mocking for once.

"I have walked the shadows," she answers. "I have tended to my business. Serana and I wandered the wilds and swam in the deepest pools. I found the hidden places, the places only I know. What did you expect?"

"I expected nothing from you. I never do."

"Unless it's to win you a war with my Voice."

He resists the urge to scrub his hands at his face or maybe bang his head against the table. He sips more mead and she does the same, as if to tell him that she too can drink as well as him.

"You are Dragonborn," he answers. "It is your fate to write history and you wrote it on my side."

"My tongue wrote your history," she returns, "but it did more than that, if I recall." Her eyes lower down his body and she raises her eyebrows. "I do not believe that was also my fate."

Galmar chokes. Ulfric sends him a dirty look.

"The Jarls convene soon to discuss my upcoming marriage," he blurts and he's satisfied with the expression of hurt on her face. It feels good to make her feel something for once.

She smiles tightly. "Aye, I heard. I, of course, wish you luck with your new bride, Ulfric. I shall make you a sprig of herbs and flowers for your marriage bed. It will bless you with many lovely Nord children, I am sure."

Galmar watches shrewdly. He has grease in his beard as his eyes bounce back and forth between them.

Ulfric stands roughly, his anger getting the best of him. "This is not my choice! I am High King. I have my duty!"

She stands too, spots of color high in her cheeks. "As I have my duty to myself! I shall disappear into the mists, do as I will. You have no claim over me, High King Ulfric Stormcloak. I am not your Stormcrown!"

The Voice burbles up his throat in anger, longing to be unleashed. She could kill him where he stood with just a word and a fight begs between them.

"Does it bother you that I presume to claim you?" he whispers dangerously. "Or does it bother you that you wish to be claimed but would rather avoid me? Those night we lay together-"

"Silence!" she demands.

"I am the King! I will not be silenced in my own palace."

She gathers her skirts up and leaves the room, completely ignoring him.

"You fucked that up worse than the time I saw a Wood Elf wield a greatsword and cut off his own foot," Galmar remarks.

"Silence."

"Aye, my lord." He lowers his voice. "Men should not play with toys they cannot control or weapons unfit for their bearing."

Ulfric swipes a goblet off the table. "She is no toy or weapon."

They don't speak for the rest of their meal.

* * *

Ulfric lies in his chamber later that night aching for her, tormented by the knowledge she is so near, yet so far. He refuses to go to her, refuses to creep down the halls of his own home and avoid his own guards. Another part of him wants the guards to know that he's claimed her, but the rational part his father always told him to listen to says that is a poor decision for a king, and politically disadvantageous.

In the end, she makes the choice for herself, as she always does.

The door creaks open and awakens him from a light nap. The fireplace casts long, warm shadows and he watches her creep into his room. Her robe is loose and he knows she wears nothing beneath it.

"Ulfric…" she whispers.

He doesn't reply but stands to go for her. He leads her into the light of the fire and sees tear tracks on her face.

"I miss my woods," she says. "I miss my deer, and my house, and Serana. I miss the blue sky and the cold streams. But most of all, I miss you so much it hurts to breathe. I would defy the gods to be with you, but I would not defy my own happiness. I am torn. Your world is not mine."

He presses a fierce kiss to her mouth, wraps his arms around her. He kisses her until she cannot breathe and he is gasping for breath.

"Tell me," he demands. "Tell me you love me as I love you."

Her eyes skitter as if looking for an escape. "I-"

"Deny it and I will cease my summons. I will let you disappear to your wilds."

"I love you more than all the power I possess on this Nirn," she answers, grasping the front of his shirt, her eyes intensely fixed on him. "I don't want you to marry Elisif. The news was unwelcome, but I don't know how-"

"I love you," he says. "I love you as I have never loved a woman. Lay with me tonight. I will find a way to convince the Jarls that our joining would be best for Skyrim."

She laughs bitterly. "I'm a Breton, remember? We're preparing for wars with the elves and half my blood flows with their taint. It doesn't matter that I do not sympathize with their cause, that elves have taken things I hold dear. All that matters is I am not a Nord noble."

"Damn them," he says simply. "I don't care. I'll wrest them into line."

"You are a skilled speech maker and a charismatic leader, Ulfric," she says. "But you never did fool me."

She stands back from him and drops her loose robes from her body, her skin laid bare.

"I will listen to your lie for the night and give you my body. When I am alone, the thought comforts me."

He kisses her again, his hands roaming her body. Her breasts are smooth and so soft against his calloused hands. The lust rises in him, as it always does for her. She's so small, everything his father told him was unattractive in a woman. She never listened to him, never did as he asked; refused to wield swords or daggers in her own defense, preferring to lean on the arcane.

But he wants her as he has never wanted a woman before. Her hands drifts down and lands solidly on his cock. His knees almost buckle. It's been too long since he was with her, base servicing girls not satisfying his desires in her absence.

He backs her onto the bed and she falls, sprawling across it, eyes hooded. He strips quickly, artless in his haste to have her.

They'll be time for more graceful couplings, but for now all he wants to do is rut her as an animal, mark her skin with his kisses.

Her eyes gleam as he mounts her and she pushes back on his shoulders, flipping them.

"I," is all she says and he doesn't know what that means. It's almost like a promise, her own establishment of authority.

_I._

_I_ rule you.

_I_ rule your heart.

_I_ rule your bed.

You are the King but_ I_ am higher.

She sinks down on him and he hisses in pleasure, his hands finding her breasts again. He rolls a nipple between his finger and she makes an expression of bliss. She finds her rhythm slowly, always graceful, so different from the eager virgin he had first taken in the cold tents of the Pale.

He grips her hips hard enough to bruise and she smirks at him, as if allowing him his small claim. She rides herself to completion and only then allows him to follow.

Afterwards, she rolls off him, gathering the furs around her. He tries to curl around her but her back is stiff to his attempt at an embrace.

"We have tonight. Do not sour it."

She turns to him at last and tucks her head under his chin.

"Very well, my lord. As you wish."

He drifts off to sleep with her in his arms, happy, content, and warm for once. His woman and his kingdom within reach of his grasp.

When he wakes up, she is gone.


End file.
